


sleeping beauty and the burnt pancakes

by orphan_account



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Fluff, M/M, OT5, Pancakes, Schmoop, dramatic!zayn, hungover!zayn, otp, pancake day, shrove tuesday, so sickly sweet it'll rot your teeth, tired!zayn, yes please
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-12
Updated: 2013-02-12
Packaged: 2017-11-29 02:13:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/681550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p>whut was that ending? idek jfc. i just..started writing and then i couldn't think of a good ending and so that shitty ending happened and i'm sorry don't look at me or hate me i hope it doesn't ruin the rest of the story also i wrote this whole thing in like 20 or so minutes so sorry if it's awful </p><p>comments/kudos/ anything else greatly appreciated, as always!</p></blockquote>





	sleeping beauty and the burnt pancakes

There’s a buzzing somewhere by his ankle.

There’s a _loud, irritating, incessant_ buzzing by his ankle and it’s very rudely yanking him from his much needed sleep. Suffice to say he is less than impressed so he ignores the buzzing, hoping against all hopes that it will soon just go away, whatever it is.

It does. The buzzing _actually stops_ and he thanks Jesus and Allah and Zeus and Buddha and whatever other God his mind can muster at this _ohsolovely_ time in the fucking morning. And then there’s just silence for a long second, before a low raspy voice that’s soaked in too much or maybe too little sleep, “ ‘lo? Mm, sleepin’,” at that, he stirs, curious now, “or not, ng on…”, the bed dips and he feels a hand on his shoulder, the body that was pressed against his side not a minute ago now looming over him.

He cracks open an eye and is met with the sleepy smile of a boy who looks as though he’s jumped straight out of a Michaelangelo painting. His skin is pale and lovely in the bright light that so rudely streams into the bedroom  and his green eyes sparkle though partially hidden by heavy lids and laced in tiredness, and he wears a smile that is wider than it should be at this ungodly hour. It crinkles his eyes slightly and reveals an obscene dimple.

He’s obviously pretty happy and it’s just absurd.

It’s highly unfair that this boy is a morning person, and he is not. He’s not even an afternoon person, really. “What?” he says, the eight hours of sleep not quite enough for him to muster up any emotion other than awfully irritated. The boy looks at him. And he mentally gives his brain a good slap because he knows the boy’s name, knows the boys goddamn shoe size for fucks sake, knows he hasn’t jumped from a Michaelangelo masterpiece of years gone by.

This is Harry, of course, and waking up to a chipper and ludicrously happy Harry every morning is becoming a regular occurrence. He resents it but secretly loves it.

He’s not sure how Harry does it, this whole waking up in the morning thing. Mornings should be banned. Harry smiles and it reaches his eyes again, making his dimple pop out and he looks so fucking appallingly happy that even Zayn cracks a smirk, though he’s quick to hide it. He resents the time but loves the smile.

And that’s how it is.

“ _Morning_ ,” he draws out the word, owlish eyes bright and roguish eyebrows raised and sinfully pink lips quirked to the left, and Zayn buries his face in his pillow. It’s too early for this shit and he’s unable to function as is, without Harry looking at him suggestively. They’re not even together, _God._ Then there’s a booming voice from the phone in Harry’s hand and they both jerk out of their reverie. It’s extremely rude, if you ask Zayn. And out of spite, he yanks the covers over his shoulder and buries himself alive in the warm cotton.

“Oi Curly! I said put my fucking husband on. And stop ogling him, he’s not your trophy to polish and ogle and be proud of. He’s _mine_ , and you know I don’t like sharing my toys,” Louis knows them both too well and if it were anyone else it’d be a little disconcerting to be claimed as someone’s toy, trophy, or even husband. But boundaries and holding back on anything and secrets and wariness of pet names practically fled the nest the minute they all met. That’s just how it is and that’s just how it’s always been.

Privacy? What the fuck is that, anyway?

They all know each other too well and none of them would have it any other way. So of course Louis knows Harry crept into his and Zayn’s bed minutes after Louis crept out. And of course Louis knows that Harry was naked and Zayn curled into his side regardless because well, _fuck it_ , their bedroom is like the fucking Arctic ocean and Louis _left him_ , God forbid and how dare he, to get some fucking Weetabix, and Harry is warm reindeer fur or something, whatever. And of course Louis knows that Harry ogles at Zayn in the morning because apparently ‘ _Zayn is rather beautiful and anyone who says he isn’t is wrong. The end. Goodbye. Get out. Go to Specsavers if you still think Zayn isn’t perfectly lovely and beautiful and pretty as a princess.’_

So Louis knows and Harry smiles and Zayn burrows deeper into his pillow because goddamn it it’s too fucking early and cold to be thinking all this stuff and his head hurts and it’s all everyone else’s fault. It’s not like he had control over his own hands last night when they picked up five, six, nineteen, twenty seven shots of vodka in a row. It’s not his fault, honestly. They wanted to see how much they could all take before they vomited because they’re all idiots that way and obviously Zayn complied because well, they’re all idiots that way. It was his twenty-eight that made him vomit, consequently also losing him the title of winner which went to Louis, who vomited after twenty nine.

Harry attempts to hand him the phone and seeing that he’s clearly not going to move from his position on his stomach, places it against where his cheek was visible a minute ago. It’s too cold even through the covers over his head, and Zayn almost bats it away before he remembers his _husband, toy, trophy, best friend, whatever_ is on the other side.

He closes his eyes as if it’ll help him ignore the cool surface pressed to his face and manages a sombre sounding “ii” which is as close to a _hi_ or _hello_ that Louis is going to get. The bastard.

“Well good afternoon, Sleeping Beauty. Planning on joining the living anytime soon?” and how dare he be sarcastic and perfectly fine an not hungover at all. _It’s too fucking early and cold and it’s not fair._

“Sonlyarfleven. ” Zayn murmurs, just coherent enough that he himself understands what he’s saying, and as an afterthought, “Kiss.” Honestly, why is he even talking? What time is it anyway? _Probably too early._

“Was that meant to be half eleven? And what about Kiss?” Louis says, and somewhere in the background there are crude kissing sounds that can only mean one thing; the whole fucking gang are here _and for God’s sake it’s too early for people who are not in the same predicament though he can’t fathom why._ They all had twenty something shots of vodka and they’re all fucking chipper and happy and he isn’t and it’s _just not fair._

“M’yeah.” he replies, brain mentally taking in the scene that no doubt awaits him downstairs. He’s not ready. At all. It’s too fucking early. Did he mention he doesn’t do mornings?

Hungover mornings are equivalent to Death, he thinks.

“Zayn I’m well aware it’s half eleven, I’ve been up since Harry crashed into the wall at half seven this morning making his way into you.  And what are y- _oh_ right, yeah. _Sleeping Beauty_. True love’s kiss or whatever. You’re a dork.”

“ ‘koff’”

“Sorry what was that dear? Have you reverted to cave language now, or have your hundred years asleep gotten rid of your ability to speak properly?”

“’ukoff’”

“Charming one you aren’t you. Get your arse out of bed and down these stairs right now or Pancake Day is cancelled,” there’s a loud crash somewhere in the background and a mutter of _‘you bastard, you wouldn’t’_ and then a shout of _‘Zayn! If Louis takes away my pancakes I’m putting a fucking pillow over your pretty little face! Now get your fucking arse down here!’_ and then there’s a chastising tone of _‘Niall, calm down babe, I won’t let the nasty man cancel your pancakes’_ Louis scoffs much too loud.  

“Kiss.” Zayn says, adamant now, his voice somewhat regaining composure. Because morning kisses make mornings bearable. Just about. He can almost _almost_ tolerate them after he’s had his kiss.

“I’ll kiss him!” Harry chimes in and leans into Zayn, breath hot against his neck and Zayn thinks if he _just_ turned his head but then there’s a loud shout that echoes up the stairs,

“Don’t you even fucking think about it, Harold Edward!”

“Well now you’ve told me not to, I absolutely have to!” Why is everyone _shouting?_ Zayn hates them all and he wants his morning kiss and he doesn’t care who gives it to him. There’s a loud stomping and fucking hell, more loud noises. _Go away and let him sleep._ And then of course there’s a Louis in the room, rugby tackling Harry from his place on the bed and onto the floor and why? It’s too early.  The two flounder about hopelessly attempting to dominate the other and if it were anyone else, it’d be absurd; Harry is naked, for Buddha’s sake, and Louis is in his boxers and a skimpy hot pink apron that reads _Housewife_ and they’re wrestling and rolling about and crashing into things and it’s _too early_ so Zayn throws Harry’s pillow at them and wonders where the fuck he mustered the energy required to even _move_ from his cocoon.

Luckily, they stop, breathless, hair sticking up every which way, skin slick with sweat and probably slobber from licking and biting and one-upping to get the other to give in, and scratches that’ll  leave marks and cause controversy in tomorrow’s newspaper because apparently biting and scratching your bandmates means you’re also fucking.

Technically, five out of the five are. But it’s not like they’re voyeurs or something. Privacy is a word reserved for _that_ part of their world and Zayn would like it to stay that way thank you very much. 

Louis gets up then, offers a hand to Harry which he’s quick to use to yank him to his feet, sending them both crashing onto the bed _and it’s too early._ But Zayn relaxes into Louis ribs regardless, slinging an arm around his waist, and tracing patterns on Harry’s stomach because that’s entirely okay. It _is._

Boundaries flew the nest ages ago.

“Come on Princess Aurora, pancake time,” Louis says, placing a considerably chaste kiss to the corner of Zayn’s mouth. Zayn smiles and fuck it, that’s all it takes to make him roll out of bed and plod downstairs for his fucking pancakes because he knows Louis will just curl up next to him otherwise and forget about the frying pan and burn the whole house down and kill them all.

He’d die happy if he did, but. He wants pancakes now.

He’s greeted by a kilowatt smile that should be illegal and a pair of eyes that remind him of chocolate and crease at the corners and he looks around at all four boys currently stood around the island, waiting patiently for him to acknowledge them. He decides it might not be too early for that.

“Mornin’,” he slurs, slipping into a stool and instantly regretting leaning on the cool surface of the island. He sits upright, just barely able to stay that way. It’s Niall who corrects him.

“ _Afternoon_ , almost”

“Sh’up,” Zayn says, smirking.

“You look awful,”

“You too,”

It’s fifteen minutes later and they’re all sat the island, munching happily on their burnt pancakes _(Fucking hell, Lou, coulda told me you were leavin’ the pan on,)_ and laughing and smiling and it might be too early, but it’s never too early for this, hungover or not. He pretends not to notice when Louis’ head lolls onto Niall’s shoulder afterwards when they’re all full and warm, just smirks. He’ll get his revenge.

Nobody wakes up Zayn Malik without consequences, even if the blow is softened by kisses and likening’s to Sleeping Beauty and pancakes on Pancake Day. Nobody.    

**Author's Note:**

> whut was that ending? idek jfc. i just..started writing and then i couldn't think of a good ending and so that shitty ending happened and i'm sorry don't look at me or hate me i hope it doesn't ruin the rest of the story also i wrote this whole thing in like 20 or so minutes so sorry if it's awful 
> 
> comments/kudos/ anything else greatly appreciated, as always!


End file.
